The Shotgun Arcana Page 9

  “Unclean!” dour Rony Bevalier said. The town Mormon elder had taken Holly’s place: a figure in white, but Bevalier was caked in dust and spider webs. Spiders crawled along his cobweb veil. His pale, water blue eyes boiled with hatred. “Sodomite, man-lover, freak, unworthy!”

  It was coming, fast closing. It was gigantic, covered from crown to toe in foul, long dirty hair. It bore a man’s face, full of pain and anger, red eyes seeing only murder.

  “And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand.”

  It was Malachi Bick’s voice. Perched on the branch of a great, hemorrhaging tree, the saloonkeeper had large black wings like a bird’s, extending from his back, and they, too, were slowly being drenched in blood. “When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth and whosoever slayeth you, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.” Bick held a skull in his hands, blood pouring from it, soaking the soil, soaking everything.

  “It’s going to be okay, Harry,” James Ringo said, taking Harry’s burned hand in his own. The pain faded. Ringo was so beautiful; his eyes were calm and dark and serene, full of love and confidence. “It’s going to be all right, as long as we are together.…”

  There was a roar and Harry spun. The Great Hairy Man was upon him, on top of him. Ringo’s fingers slipped away from his own and he was alone and the entire world was a bellowing face of endless rage, and Harry could do nothing to stop it.

  “Mr. Mayor?”

  Harry’s eyes snapped open. He was soaked in sweat. He was on the couch of his office again, panting in fear. His assistant, young Colton Higbee, stood over him looking very concerned. The young man was from a good Mormon family and wanted to be a lawyer. He had served Harry very well over the last few years. “Sir, I’m sorry to wake you.… Actually, I’m not. You appeared to be in a great deal of distress. You have a meeting in less than an hour, sir.”

  “I do? What time is it?”

  Harry rolled over and sat up on the couch. He slid out his father’s pocket watch and popped the lid open, rubbing his wet, disheveled hair. Inside the watch was a browning, faded photograph of Harry’s late mother.

  “Almost eight, sir,” Colton said, pushing his wire spectacles up on his nose and then smoothing his centrally parted hair, which was slicked down tightly with a generous application of macassar oil. He handed Harry a hot cup of Arbuckle coffee with a little bit of cream.

  Harry drank deeply and sighed. “Mother’s milk,” he mumbled.

  “Another late night, sir?” Colton said. “Sir, if I may, when was the last time you slept more than a few hours, or at home?”

  Harry ignored his young aide and took another sip of coffee as he looked for his boots. “What is on the agenda for today, mother?”

  “You have a campaign meeting before noon with Mr. Bick at his office,” Colton said. “Sheriff Highfather wanted you to know he’s back from his trip to New Orleans and that the business he had there has been resolved. He also wanted to inform you there was a murder last night at the Dove’s Roost.”

  “Client or girl?” Harry asked, yawning.

  “Girl, sir,” Colton said. “The sheriff says he is investigating. While there is little chance there will be much public cry over the death of a prostitute, public safety is an issue that we have been hearing a lot about from voters. You may also want to discuss with the sheriff the issue of hiring more deputies.”

  Harry nodded. Colton continued. “Sarah has some papers out at the ranch you are supposed to sign in regards to the sale of the twenty acres to Mr. Wickshire and his family. Max Macomber has expressed the opinion to me this fine morning that Deputy Mutt should be relieved of his duty. His words were somewhat less eloquent. I assured him you would give the matter all the attention it deserves and meet up with him at his shop today. Then a meeting tonight at six at the Presbyterian Church with the Ladies Temperance League.”

  “God,” Harry said, “I’ll need a drink after that.”

  “They tell their husbands who to vote for,” Colton reminded him, pouring some heated water into the tin washbasin stand, near the door. “Also, sir, I wanted to bring to your attention the numerous promissory notes that arrived from San Francisco. They are for several thousands of dollars and were presented by your friend, Mr. Ringo. The parties are requesting payment.”

  Harry frowned. James had said nothing to him about borrowing money, or going to his old home in San Francisco; of course it had been a while since they had talked. A pang of loneliness stabbed Harry.

  “Pay them,” Harry said. “From my personal accounts, please, Colton.” He drained his coffee mug and sighed. “Who do I have this morning?” Harry asked.

  Colton smiled. “Your favorite.…”

  * * *

  Harry hated meeting with Golgotha’s Mormon elders. It reminded him of the most dreary memories of his childhood, when his father, the great, stern Josiah Pratt—Priest of the Second Order, the Patriarchal Authority—twenty feet tall, with lightning coming out of his eyes and a face made of scowling stone, would make him come to these meetings when all he wanted was to be out playing in the sun with Holly and the other children. Now, thirty-four, he felt the same way—he wanted out of here, badly.

  “This is a serious position we find ourselves in,” Brodin Chaffin said. “The Argent Mine reopening has reignited the boom we had before everyone thought it had gone bust, but it is also bringing with it problems that our community simply cannot abide.”

  Chaffin was a stocky man in his mid-thirties, clean-shaven and well dressed. He looked at the other men around the table in the cool, shadowed meeting hall of the tabernacle off Absalom Road, next to the church and near the temple building.

  “Our people, the men of our faith, have held respected and prominent positions in the business community of Golgotha since we founded the town, and now we are in danger of being overcome by outside, foreign business interests; of losing our control.”

  “Yes,” Rony Bevalier said, nodding. The elder was as dry and pale as ever, his face a rutted road of wrinkles and furrowed scowl lines. For an instant Harry saw Bevalier wrapped in webs and spiders as in his dreams. He shuddered and shook it off. “Our community was founded on Mormon values, and with Mormon blood and sweat. Unless something is done and done soon, Golgotha will be another cesspool of filth, mongrels and moral turpitude, like what has already befallen Virginia City and Carson City.”

  “With all due respect,” Harry said, sitting up in his chair. “The boom is creating some challenges for the town, but in the long run, growth from the Argent and from our proximity to the transcontinental railroad is good for everyone’s business.”

  “You need to be concerned about your own people’s businesses, not everyone’s,” Bevalier said. “What are you first, Pratt? A politician or a Mormon?”

  “I could ask you the same question, Elder,” Harry said, meeting the old man’s withering gaze. “You seem to be more interested in protecting business than extending welcome to our new neighbors.”

  Bevalier reddened and turned to his fellow elder, Antrim Zezrom Slaughter. “Explain to me again why this impudent dandy is here?”

  Slaughter, Golgotha’s highest-ranking Mormon, a high priest and the sole reason that Golgotha had a fully recognized temple in the middle of the desolate wasteland, smiled and nodded to Bevalier. Slaughter was dressed in black, as usual; with silver hair, gray eyes and standing six foot two, he was an imposing figure.

  “I think both of you need to leave that election at the door,” Slaughter said. “There isn’t enough room in here for it and the church’s business. Rony, Harry’s family was instrumental in creating this town. He is the guardian of the relics of our faith that are located in the caves below his family home, and then there is the matter of his position as a defender of the faith and protector.”

  Harry waved Slaughter off. “Sir, I’d
prefer not to get into all that.”

  “If this limsy is the One Mighty and Strong,” Bevalier said, “then I’m Daniel Boone! This town needs a real leader, not this sorry mop.”

  “I never claimed to be that!” Harry said, standing. “I never asked for any of this, and I’m sick and tired of your constant—”

  “Enough!” Slaughter said, slapping his palm on the table. “Both of you. Harry has earned a seat on this council, and he has earned all of our respect. And you, Rony, you will keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll have something to say about it.”

  All four men at the table were silent. Slaughter finally spoke.

  “Well, another productive meeting,” he said. “Our next order of business…”

  When the meeting adjourned, Slaughter took Harry aside.

  “You need to learn to not let him goad you like that,” Slaughter said. “You have more important things to concern yourself with than playing political slap and tickle with Rony.”

  “If I don’t put him and that glad-handing nob of a son of his in their place, I’ll be out of a job. What could be more important than that?”

  Slaughter reached under his coat and removed a packet of letters. He handed them to Harry.

  “This is,” Slaughter said. “Your commitment to your people and the faith.”

  Harry looked at the letters. “What are these?”

  “Correspondence,” Slaughter said. “Letters, telegrams, requests for help from the One Mighty and Strong. Word has gotten out about what you did last year, Harry, about how the sacred plates revealed themselves to you. Ours is a new faith, and it is not always welcome in this land. The faithful need heroes, they need you, Harry.”

  Joseph Smith, the prophet and founder of the Mormon faith, had been a friend to Harry’s late father. Smith had commissioned Josiah with a great task to seek out and protect the mythical relics of the faith—divine treasure of Heaven. They found the impossible trove in a cave here in Golgotha, and the Pratt family built a mansion over it.

  Last year, the sacred golden plates given to Smith by an angel had revealed themselves to the most unlikely of readers—Harry. Armed with some of the divine items, Harry had been instrumental in saving Golgotha and the world from destruction. Slaughter and others believed that Harry was the fulfillment of the Prophesy of One Mighty and Strong—a great hero and leader who would guide the faith in its hour of greatest need.

  Pratt looked at the stack of letters in his hand. They felt much heavier than they should. He leafed through them and shook his head.

  “Requests for help with bad crops, range wars, poor business, sick children, religious intolerance and bigotry. Ghouls? Ghouls? And what on earth is a ‘skin-walker’? What do these people expect me to do? Ride in on a unicorn and smite their troubles with the Sword of Laban? What do they want from me?”

  “Hope,” Slaughter said. “Hope that the future is bright and good. That tomorrow will be better.”

  “I can hardly get myself reelected to this one-horse town,” Harry said. “How can I give anyone hope?”

  Slaughter saw the stress in the younger man’s face, and the darkness in his eyes. He rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder and patted his back gently.

  “I believe in you, Harry,” Slaughter said. “Even if you don’t.”

  * * *

  It was after dark by the time he finished for the day. Harry was exhausted. He rode his horse Knight, a sorrel Morgan stallion, slowly up Rose Hill toward his mansion. He didn’t want to but he needed to clean up and change clothes before he headed back to the mayor’s office and the couch.

  There were lamps lit when he entered the main hall.

  “Lamarr!” he called out to his servant, but there was no answer. For second a trickle of fear fluttered in Harry’s chest at the thought that Holly, bleeding darkness, would turn the corner and rush toward him eager to wring his neck.

  Instead there was the thump of boots and James Ringo stepped into view. The dusky-skinned piano player’s hair was brown, shot through with coppery strands and worn long like the Indian men wore theirs. Ringo was clean-shaven, but a shadow of a dark beard remained on his face. He was wearing only trousers and boots. His muscular frame was wiry and lean. His bare chest was scarred with the looping trails of knife wounds and the puckered craters of bullet wounds—a history in flesh of his youth in the Barbary Coast of San Francisco, but he was still beautiful to Harry. Ringo held a glass in each hand. He offered one to Harry.

  “Welcome home,” Ringo said. “I was beginning to think I was going to be drinking alone. I was thinking a drink, then I drag you upstairs and give you a bath. I’ll do your back. Hell, I’ll do your front.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Harry said. “Where is Lamarr? What if someone sees you?”

  Ringo set Harry’s drink on the hall table and took a long draw on his own. “I see,” he said. “We’re back to this place. Understandable, but still disappointing.”

  “What are you talking about?” Harry said. “I came home to grab clothes and clean up. I need to get back to work. What do you mean—‘back to this place,’ exactly?”

  “You, back to the old pattern we had when Holly was alive. You love me, you spend time with me, you hate yourself for it, you run away and try to hide in your responsibilities and deny who you are, and I get to hold us together until you get sick of pretending again, start hating your duty again and run back to me. You haven’t been to see me in over three months. It gets old, Harry, and all that running must exhaust you.”

  “Not so old that you can’t make your way to San Francisco and spend a hell of a lot of my money there,” Harry said. “You find yourself a new ‘one true love’?”

  Ringo walked past Harry into the parlor. Harry picked up his drink and followed.

  “Fuck you, Harry,” Ringo said. “I had debts, very old debts, and the people I owed caught up to me and shook me down. Not all of us were born into fucking nobility. I’ll pay you back.”

  Pratt snorted and sipped his drink. “Don’t let it concern you. I always told you to use the money if you need it. Look, I’m sorry you are feeling neglected,” Harry said, “but I have so much coming at me and I have so much more responsibility now. I don’t have the time to…”

  “To be in love with me,” Ringo said. “To let me help you carry the burden?”

  “You can’t understand this.” Harry sat back in one of the French-made upholstered chairs. “I can’t afford to make mistakes. Too many people are counting on me.”

  “Am I a mistake to you now, Harry?” Ringo asked. He sat cross-legged on the oriental carpet on the floor, a few feet from Harry’s chair. He fished his makings out of his pocket and began to roll a cigarette, setting his drink next to him. “Harry, not too long ago you said you wanted to run away to San Francisco. You loathed your responsibility, your duties, now they’re killing you. When was the last time you slept all night? When did you eat a proper meal?”

  “I’m … more than I used to be,” Harry said. “I had a little boy walk up to me today on the street and thank me for saving his life during the insanity last year. I don’t remember him, don’t remember saving him. James, people’s lives depend on me here—especially here—and I have to be focused on that or people will die.”

  “Like Holly died,” Ringo said.

  “Don’t,” Harry said, and drained his glass. “You weren’t even there, so don’t you dare.”

  “You’re right, I wasn’t, but I would have been if you let me,” Ringo said. “Harry, I would stand with you at the gates of Hell. Holly is dead, and I know you blame yourself for her dying.…”

  “I ran her through with a goddammed magic sword, like out of a fucking fairy tale,” Harry said, snarling. He smashed the glass in his hand. Ringo jumped and crawled toward his lover. “I killed her, and maybe if I had knocked her out, or done something different—something some real hero, like Jon Highfather, or the real fucking One Mighty and Strong, would have done, may
be if I had talked sweet to her the last time I saw her instead of being a selfish, evil-hearted bastard, she would have been safe at home and not out where those sick bastards got her. I…”

  It all came rushing out: all the sadness, all the regret and the anger, the fear and self-doubt. Harry wept and Ringo knelt before him, took his bleeding hand and gently removed the broken glass as best he could, kissing Harry’s wrist and the uncut places on the back of his hand.

  “Shhh,” Ringo said, taking a doily off an end table and wiping away the blood as best he could. “You hush now, love. I got you.”

  “I’ve lived here most of my life,” Harry said. “I’ve seen some terrible things, but there was just so much death, so much dying and I was the one doing the killing. And…” The sobs rose again in him. “And they all think I’m some kind of hero now, some damned prophecy, me! I have to be good enough for their damned holy books; I can’t afford mistakes, or weakness. I can’t let anyone die anymore. I can’t afford to be…”

  “Human?” Ringo said, and pulled Harry to him. He kissed the mayor on his wet eyes in an attempt to banish the tears, then kissed Harry’s forehead. “Harry, you are one of the most caring men I ever met, and you are a hero. You were afraid and you set that aside and did what needed to be done. Holly understood. She would never have wanted that thing walking around claiming to be her. You freed her. You saved the town, you saved all of us.”

  Ringo kissed Harry softly, tasting the tears and feeling his ragged sobs with each breath. “And I love you, and you can always be human with me. I love you.”

  Ringo kissed him again and Harry joined the kiss. Harry ran his good hand through Ringo’s hair and Ringo cupped Harry’s face. The kiss grew deeper, hungrier. They were on the carpeted floor, knocking over Ringo’s drink and scattering his tobacco and papers. Harry kissed the tips of Ringo’s fingers, then his palm and then his wrist. Ringo’s hand slid along Harry’s chest, teasing, then slid lower. Both of them wrestled with their clothes, both too hungry for the other to relent from touching, kissing, long enough to remove them.